


Color of Blood

by madscientist1313



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Blood and Injury, F/M, Falcon and Winter Soldier, Ferrari - Freeform, Gen, Humor, Missions Gone Wrong, Post-Avengers: Endgame (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-25
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24905563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madscientist1313/pseuds/madscientist1313
Summary: A mission gone wrong has Sam about to lose his damn mind.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Reader, James "Bucky" Barnes/Original Female Character(s), James "Bucky" Barnes/Reader
Comments: 8
Kudos: 74





	Color of Blood

**Author's Note:**

> For the Flex Your Muscles Writing Challenge from @captain-rogers-beard for 6/22. Flash fiction prompt – **The color of her blood was the least of my worries**. (Really only Bucky/reader pairing if you squint... which I do 😉)

Sam cringes the moment he hears the car pull up. _Not good_ , he thinks on repeat, those two little words beating against his skull as he scurries from the porch. Frantic accelerating, precarious shifting, skidding dramatically to a screeching halt in the long and dark front drive – _fuuuuck_ that was gonna wreak havoc on the brakes – and the look of frazzled fury on Bucky’s face when he throws open the driver’s side door, almost tripping over his own two feet as he dashes to the other side of the vehicle. All of it is so… _not good._

Just as Sam pulls up behind him, Bucky tugs open the passenger’s side door, nearly jerking it off its hinges… and doing so without any warning. You slip to the side, no longer anchored by the soothing press of the cool glass window on your forehead, and you drop heavily into his waiting hands with a surprised yelp and a disgruntled, pain-filled grunt.

“What the hell happened?!” Sam barks out as he takes in your slumped posture, tight grimace, and barely fluttering eyes. He reaches for your arm, helping Bucky to settle you on unsteady feet. That’s when his eyes blow wide, gaze shooting just past you, over your shoulder, and into the interior of the previously pristine Ferrari. “What?!” he screams, jumping back and slamming the heels of his hands to his head in wild vexation.

Bucky lets out a low growl as he grabs you around the waist and hikes you up back up, your legs having buckled the moment Sam let go. “I told her not to do anything stupid,” he mutters, his voice a mere whisper compared to the agitated ramblings of the irate man to his left. “She didn’t listen.”

Sam paces in a wide, arcing line, backtracks into swift, spinning circles as though his feet are incapable of coordinating with one another while he’s in such a frenzied state. His eyes ping wildly over the otherwise empty grounds of the safe house. Miles from the city, miles from anything, he _knows_ that the chances of anyone being close enough to see this – to _hear_ this – are practically nil. But still, he can’t help but chide himself for shouting. Captain America losing his cool on just his second mission in command.

He pulls in a deep, steeling breath – lets it out in what almost sounds like fitful wheeze – and leans forward again, peering into the car. It’s worse than he thought at first glance, and he can’t quite contain the small whimper that leaks from his lips. “Man,” he whines, dragging the word out endlessly as he pulls back and takes two large steps away, distancing himself from the car. “What did you _do_?”

You try to straighten yourself in Bucky’s grasp so you can – professionally, respectfully – issue out a preliminary mission report for your commander. Never mind the fact that your legs don’t seem to work right now and your shaky hands can do little more than desperately cling to Bucky’s perfectly fitted suit jacket as he struggles to hold you upright. Never mind that when you look over at Sam, you see… several Sams, all foggy and wispy and overlapping each other, oddly blurring in with the dark tree line behind.

You open your mouth to speak, a bit of blood dribbling out over your bottom lip, trailing down your chin as the thick taste of copper only now registers in your mind. _A swift left hook to the jaw_ … oh yeah, you remember now. Yeah… that _sucked_.

You twist and spit a giant glob into the grass, a nearly indiscernible, crackling sound pulling from somewhere in your chest before you clear your throat and mumble, voice thick and raw, “Got the files.”

“Yeah,” Bucky scoffs, pinning you to his chest with his right hand as he tugs down the back of the seat to reach behind, gathering his rifle with his left. “And then you got stabbed. Great work.” There are blood stains littering the back too, you can see them plain as day with the dome light clicked on, even through your hazy state, and you find yourself cocking your head curiously, wondering just how exactly that could’ve happened.

“Why?” Sam bemoans, hands scrubbing a frustrated path down his face. “ _How_?” he laments, shifting around and hesitantly peeking again into the car. “Its… that’s…” His hands suddenly flail wildly in front of him. “This is a damn _rental_!”

Bucky loops his rifle over his shoulder and shrugs, once again wrapping both arms around your body, a welcome thing as you continue to idly slide down towards the ground into a heap of bones and broken flesh. “You get the insurance?”

“Insurance?! Man…” He pinches his lips tightly together, hands clamping around his hips as he paces in another quick circle before coming to a halt directly in front of you. “This is a _Ferrari_ ,” he enunciates, a little too patronizingly. You roll your eyes… or at least, you think you do… your body doesn’t quite seem to be reacting like normal right now. “That’s an Italian leather interior,” he goes on, voice low and shaky, almost teetering on the edge of hysteria. “ _White_ Italian leather.”

Bucky’s brows furrow. “Thought it was tan. Looks more tan to me.”

You cock your head and narrow your eyes, lurch to the side to get a better look – much to the annoyance of the hulking man trying to keep you upright. More thick red spittle dribbles down your chin as you declare simply, “Off-white.”

Even in the pitch dark night, no more than the porchlight ahead and the dome light from the car illuminating his face – even in your steadily deteriorating state, with the world around you fading and flickering at the edges – you’re pretty sure you can see that vein near Sam’s temple pulsate. _He’s about to stroke out_ , you think vaguely, wondering if you might be just about ready to do the same.

“I don’t care what damn _shade_ it is,” he spits out deliberately. “Bright red _blood_ is gonna be pretty damn obvious when I take it back in!”

Bucky’s arms tighten around your middle, giving a firm jerk upwards as you continue to slip. “It’ll dry more brown than red,” he says plainly. You choke on a laugh, fingers pinching and gripping maniacally at his shoulder as he offers another blithe shrug. You don’t see the look that Sam gives him, but you’re certain it’s a glare of pure daggers, one of his rare – though ultimately effective – _do not fuck with me_ stares. “I’m sorry,” Bucky barks out impatiently. “Next time I’ll put down a towel.”

“Bright red blood…” he breathes out distractedly. “All over a perfect _off-white_ interior…” as though the whole thing is just too much to fathom.

Bucky tugs you closer, vibranium hand sweeping under your ass and gripping your left hip in an attempt to better hold you in place. “ **The color of her blood was the least of my worries.** Shit, Sam,” he grunts out, rifle slipping from his shoulder as your legs finally give and all of your weight falls into him. “You wanna keep staring at the damn car, or you wanna help me plug up her holes?”

“Gross,” you mumble into him, clinging to his jacket with everything you’ve got.

Sam raises a brow and shakes his head, continues to stare at the Ferrari. “We _do not_ have the funds to cover this.”

“Sam,” he growls out, low and warning.

“Even with the seed money from the Stark estate… I mean, this safe house alone was…”

“Sam…”

He spins to face the both of you, deep brown eyes narrowing almost suspiciously at Bucky. “ _You_ gotta know what gets blood stains outta leather. Of everybody… you gotta know.”

You huff out a breath, choking a bit as you do so, head lulling to the side. “I think I’m dying,” sputters coolly from your lips amid more red-tinged saliva.

“You’re not dying,” Bucky gripes, an impatient note to his voice. He seems to give up on holding you upright – not like your legs are doing anything to help him out – and he opts instead for easily tossing you over his shoulder, the fingers of his right hand looping through your tac belt to secure you to him.

“Really,” Sam concurs, craning his head around Bucky’s thick frame to look at you with a raised brow. “Don’t be so dramatic.”

Bucky stiffens beneath you. “You’re calling _her_ dramatic? You’re losing your shit over a few stains in a car.”

“A few stains?!” he exclaims. And even you gotta agree… it looks like an utter horror show in there. “She’s gonna be fine,” he states with a scoff, stepping around to Bucky’s front and out of your line of sight. “I’m gonna be out _at least_ a hundred thousand dollars. Do I look like I can afford a hundred grand? Do I look like some kind of genius billionaire inventor or… or… some kind of first-rate drug kingpin with bricks of cash stashed away in a boat somewhere?”

He shakes his head. “No, you don’t.”

You tap listlessly at Bucky’s back as you dangle over his shoulder, let your hand fall to knock your knuckles into the swell of his ass when he offers no response. “Dying…” you remind him weakly, what’s left of your blood rushing to your head. “Help?”

You can almost _hear_ him roll his eyes as he tells you again, “You’re not _dying_.” He looks back at Sam and sighs. “It’s like she’s never been stabbed before.”

“Just…” he says finally, waving an absent hand through the air. “Just go take care of her. I’ll… I don’t know what I’ll do.” He shrugs defeatedly, runs his fingers gingerly over the roof of the car. “Might have to torch her.”

“Peroxide,” Bucky says with another impatient sigh. “Get in there now before it all dries and it’ll be easier. Cold water only, little bit of soap. But go light, too much moisture’ll ruin the leather.”

“Cows hate rain,” you mumble with an airy laugh, your nearly unconscious brain delighting in the quip.

Bucky shifts and positions you higher on his shoulder, the movement eliciting a pained whimper as what you now recall is a stab wound stretches further open beneath your tac suit. “If any stains are still there in the morning,” he tells Sam, ignoring your discomfort completely, “run out and get some saddle soap.”

You swing your hands listlessly, open palms repeatedly smacking at the tops of his legs, his cheeks. Only a hint of pain remains now, a delightful – oddly, not at all frightening – lightheaded giddiness washing over you. “Plug me up, Sarge!” you slur as you blink thickly and wait to slip into oblivion.

“Saddle soap?” Sam asks, a sincere interest perking his tone.

“Saddle soap,” Bucky confirms, reaching up with his vibranium hand and giving you a sharp slap on your own ass before turning to leave, carrying you – finally – towards the house.


End file.
